LITTLE GLO’S JOY AND WOE
She grew a flower of mind and eye.
WORDSWORTH.
We have lingered a little over these first days of their childish
friendship, because they were types of so many days that followed, all
through the budding spring, the blooming summer, and the fruitful
autumn.
The little girl was allowed to do very much as she pleased by her
studious uncle and invalid aunt, as it was scarcely possible that she
would “run into any danger, or fall into any sin,” on so isolated a
place as the promontory, where there was neither evil companions or wild
beasts to deprave or destroy her.
On the main she might have been more closely looked after; but here she
was so safe that not a thought was given to her safety.
So, every day, when it did not rain, little Gloria went down to the
landing to see her playmate and read to him while he mended old nets and
seines, or made new ones.
At first she was only “playing school,” but later on she understood her
work and grew interested in the progress of her pupil; and thus her play
rose into “a labor of love.”
Together they went through the First Book in Geography, and the First
Book in History, and the Primary Grammar.
And in this way the child not only advanced her pupil playmate, but
refreshed her own memory in those studies, which had been too much
neglected since her arrival at the promontory.
A pure, sweet, and faithful affection grew up between the two children,
such as we have sometimes seen between two little girls or two little
boys; only because neither Gloria nor David had any other playmate to
divide their attention, their innocent affection was all the stronger,
deeper, and more devoted in its exclusiveness.
Very often, too, the fisher-boy brought an invitation from his
grandmother to the little lady to spend a day on the sandhill which the
old dame called her home. It was always accepted, and always Gloria had
“a happy, happy day.”
She learned of the old cottager to net, to knit, to sew, to piece
patchwork quilts out of scraps of bright calico and white linen, and to
plait doormats out of strips of brilliant cloth or flannel—arts not
likely to be of much use to the West Indian heiress—but she liked to
learn them, notwithstanding.
“Wouldn’t I make a right good little cottage girl, after all, Granny
Lindsay?” she once asked her old friend, in her childish love of
approbation.
“’Ee would, my darling,” said the old dame, tenderly. “’Ee would make a
helpful, loving little lass by the cottage fire, or a gracious benign
princess in a palace. The world’s breath of sunshine is for ’ee, my
flower, from the cottage to the palace.”
“I saw some palaces in Havana, but I would rather have a cottage just
like this! Oh, I think a cottage is so nice and cosy, and so—SPLENDID!”
exclaimed the little girl, with childlike exaggeration and
misapplication of words.
So the once lonely child found much joy in her humble friends, giving
and receiving good, while spring bloomed into summer, and summer ripened
into autumn, and autumn faded into winter.
Then came cold, and frost, and change, a bitter change for little
Gloria.
Her playmate’s work was now the clearing up of the fishing landing,
mending boats and oars, and putting them away for winter—work that could
not go on parallel with his studies, which were now pursued in the
evenings at his own home.
Yet Gloria came down late in the afternoon on every clear day to hear
him say his lessons. He told her that this helped him on “ever so much.”
And it pleased her.
One day after sunset, when she had heard her pupil’s lesson in a very
elementary book of astronomy, and had praised his quick apprehension and
patient application, and had greatly encouraged him, as she always did,
she took leave and ran home, singing and dancing as she went.
When she reached the house, she found ’Phia at the door, looking out for
her.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, come in, child,” said the woman, in a
frightened tone.
“What—what is the matter? What has happened?” cried Gloria, catching
terror from the other.
“I dunno. Somefin’ awful! Mistress has been goin’ on at that rate! She
done put de debbil in marster now, sure! Mind, I tell you, honey,
dere’ll be murder done here some ob dese days! Mark my words!”
With a slight scream the terrified child fled from this prophetess of
evil toward the sitting-room, where she heard the sound of high words.
She opened the door and hurried in.
And this was what she saw:
Her uncle standing on the corner of the hearth, with his elbow on the
mantelpiece, his head leaning on his hand, whose fingers were clutched
into his black hair; his starting black eyes staring down upon the
floor; his black brows knitted, his teeth clenched, his face pallid with
suppressed passion.
Her aunt, with her white dress and yellow hair in wild disorder, as if
her own desperate hands had rent and torn them, was raging up and down
the floor like a tigress in her cage, pouring forth all the gall and
venom of her jealous fury, in words that might never be forgiven or
forgotten.
Even the child intuitively perceived this, and feared that the man,
stung to madness by the woman’s venomed tongue, might be driven to some
rash act, fatal to them both.
She looked, shuddering, from one to the other.
It was terrible to see so fragile a creature as Eusebie in the power of
such a tremendous passion, that seemed as if it must shrivel her frame
as a cobweb in a flame. But it was more terrible to see in Marcel’s
whole aspect the chained devil that might break loose in destroying
frenzy at any moment. Full of fear and horror, the child crept trembling
to the man’s side, put her arms around his waist, which she could just
reach, looked up piteously in his face and whispered, in her coaxing
tone:
“Uncle, uncle, uncle.”
“My little angel,” he murmured in reply, as his stern dark face softened
and brightened.
“Come away from that man this instant, Gloria,” cried Eusebie, stopping
in her wild walk and stamping with fury. “Come away from him, I command
you! He is not your uncle! You shall not call him uncle! He is a traitor
and a villain! Come away, I say!”
The child did not obey; she could not move; she was half paralyzed by
fear and horror, and more likely to sink than to stand.
The man put his arm around her, and drew her closer to him.
The woman stamped with fury.
“Let my niece go, you caitiff!” she screamed.
He did not reply to this, but lifted his head and glared at her, while
his face darkened and hardened.
The terrified child—terrified for others, not for herself—pressed
closely to him, as if, in extremity, she would hold him back by her own
baby strength, and moaned, coaxingly:
“Uncle, uncle, uncle dear.”
Again his face changed; he stooped towards her and she laid her cheek
against his lips.
“Come away from that man, or I will tear you from him! He is not your
uncle! He is no kin to you! He is nothing to you! No! I thank Heaven
that not one drop of his false, black blood runs in the veins of any one
belonging to me! I have not even a child! Ha! ha! I know the reason!
Fiends are not permitted to be fathers!” hissed the woman, with all the
hate and scorn that Satan could cast into her face and voice.
Here the man’s eyes glared so fiercely, while his brow grew so black,
that the child clasped him in a frantic clutch, moaning, inarticulately,
some words of piteous deprecation to restrain him.
“Leave that wretch this instant, I command you! His contact is infamy!
Am I not to be obeyed? Oh, then I will snatch you from him!” screamed
the woman, in blind fury, as she sprang towards them; but he was too
quick for her.
He lifted the half-fainting child in his arms and bore her swiftly out
of the room.
“Oh, uncle, she is crazy! She does not know what she says! Don’t mind
her! Don’t go back in the room,” coaxed the child, as she put up her
hand and stroked and patted his cheek. “Uncle, dear, don’t go back in
the room! Come with me to Granny Lindsay’s cottage. Oh, it is so
heavenly there.”
But now the man paid but little attention to what she said. He pulled
the bell-cord violently.
’Phia ran to answer the bell.
“Take this child up to her bedroom, and stay with her until she goes to
sleep,” he said, placing the little girl in the strong arms of the
colored woman.
“Oh, uncle, don’t go back to that room! Don’t, or if you do, take me
with you!” pleaded the child, caressing his cheek with her hand.
“Go, my dear, go to bed. Pandemonium is no place for babies. Leave me to
deal with that demoniac,” he answered, grimly, as he turned away.
“Oh, uncle, don’t mind her! She don’t know what she says!” pleaded the
child, stretching out her hands imploringly towards him.
But he had re-entered the room and clapped the door to behind him.
Gloria slid from the woman’s arms, sat down on the lowest step of the
stairs and burst into tears.
“Come to bed, honey. Don’t sit there crying. You can’t do no good by
dat. You can’t ’vent de debbil from habbin’ his own way dis night,” said
’Phia.
“Oh, I know—I know—I know!” sobbed the child.
“Well, den, come along up to bed, and I’ll stay ’long ob you for
company.”
“Oh, I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—I’m so ’fraid. Let me sit here and wait——”
“Wait for what?”
“Oh, till uncle comes out, or one of them does. Oh, I couldn’t go to
bed! I couldn’t go to sleep and leave them so! Hush!” suddenly exclaimed
the child, breaking off in her talk, and bending forward her head and
straining her sense in fearful attention, as she heard her uncle’s voice
in low, tense, bitter tones, and then her aunt’s hissing tongue in
reply.
The child clasped her hands in a piteous, helpless agony of prayer.
“Come, come, honey, come up to bed, and I will sit by you and tell you
pretty stories about foxes and hares, and dwarfs and giants, and little
pigs and things, like I used to do,” said ’Phia.
“Hush!” exclaimed the child, starting forward, with staring eyes, as the
voices in the closed room sunk lower and became more bitter, intense and
hissing.
“Come, come, honey, you must come to bed. ’Tain’t right to be listening,
nohow!” expostulated Sophia, in virtuous indignation.
“Oh! I know it is not! I know it is not! And I can’t hear a word they
say. I only want to know—want to know——Oh! I’m so afraid! I’m so afraid,
’Phia!” gasped the child, shuddering from head to foot.
“’Fraid o’ what?”
“Oh! ’fraid of something happening!” panted the little girl.
“You can’t help of what happens, so what’s the use o’ bein’ afeard?”
At that moment the voices in the closed room arose, both speaking
together in violent, clashing frenzy.
“Oh, ’Phia! Let’s go in! Let’s go in and stand between them!” pleaded
the child, springing up.
“Who?—me? No, I thank you, honey! I’m spunky enough, but I ain’t gwine
to part a wolf from a wildcat, dere!”
“Then I will! I will!” cried the brave child, running and flinging
herself against the closed door; but it was locked fast, and resisted
all her efforts, while the angry voices within clashed together in rage.
Suddenly one voice arose above the other, with the roar of an infuriated
wild beast. It was her uncle’s voice. It cried:
“DIE, then! and end it all!”
There was a heavy fall and groan.
With a shriek of horror Gloria arose and fled to the negro woman and
buried her face in her bosom.
The next instant the door was suddenly unlocked and thrown open, and
Marcellus de Crespigney—his face haggard, his eyes starting, his hair
bristling—ran out, tore open the hall door and rushed from the house out
into the winter night.
“I must go see what’s happened,” hastily muttered the black woman, in a
voice full of awe, as she put the child off her knee and went toward the
sitting-room.
Gloria, tottering, moaning, sobbing piteously, followed.
The long room was silent and almost dark, for the candles had not been
called for, and there was no light except from the smouldering logs of
the fire in the open chimney.
Fallen on a rug before this fire, lay a white form.
Sophia stooped to look at it, and instantly started up in horror, crying
out:
“Lord have mercy upon us! He has killed her! Marster has murdered
mist’ess!”
HE HAD!
There in a little pool of her own blood, lay the small, white face of
Eusebie, with its eyes wide open and glazed.
She was quite dead.